


The Silver Harp

by isasolan



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Apologism, Child Abandonment, Daddy Issues, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 04:25:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isasolan/pseuds/isasolan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Elrond wore a mantle of grey and had a star upon his forehead, and a silver harp was in his hand, and upon his finger was a ring of gold with a great blue stone."</i><br/>Frodo asks about Elrond's harp on the journey to the Undying Lands and learns of Maglor, son of Fëanor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Silver Harp

 

_Elrond wore a mantle of grey and had a star upon his forehead, and **a silver harp** was in his hand, and upon his finger was a ring of gold with a great blue stone._

  


The sea was not gentle. The boat jumped on the waves, riding swiftly with the wind, and Frodo felt dizzier and dizzier with every mile they sailed. He went for a walk on the deck, holding on to the rail not to lose his balance. Most of the Elves were outside, chatting merrily as if nothing was wrong at all. Some of them were even singing.

 

Bilbo was fast asleep for his afternoon nap, so Gandalf was the only other non-Elf on the deck, and he did not look seasick in the least. The wizard was engrossed in a long conversation with the Lady, and Frodo did not feel like disturbing them. He kept on walking, heading towards the bow purely by instinct, since the swaying was less intense there.

 

Elrond was sitting at the forward pulpit, silent and unmoving, and if he had not looked in his direction, Frodo probably would not have noticed his presence.

 

“Master Frodo,” he said with a kind smile. “Come sit here, you will feel less dizzy.”

 

Frodo sat next to the Half-Elf. Elrond had removed his grey cloak, and was clad in a simple blue robe. The star on his brow he had kept, and he was strumming his silver harp absently. The hobbit focused on the gentle playing, and found himself gradually less seasick. Elven magic, probably. But did Elrond also not have Mortal blood?

 

“Yes,” Elrond answered as if hearing his thoughts. “I feel the sea more keenly than my Elven brethren. But one gets used to it after some time, and then it is no longer troublesome.”

 

Frodo nodded, hoping it would be true. He felt already much better. Elrond was looking straight ahead, and his fingers on the harp moved a little more freely. The instrument was entirely silver, and its neck curved elegantly to fit in the crook of an arm. In the crown was engraved a star, not unlike the one Elrond wore on his brow. The strings were also silver, and they shivered elegantly under Elrond’s strokes.

 

“It’s beautiful,” Frodo said, and Elrond turned his head to look at him, as if he had forgotten his presence. The hobbit felt embarrassed to have disturbed the Elf’s thoughts and added quickly, “Your harp. It’s a beautiful instrument. Did you make it yourself?”

 

“It was my father’s,” Elrond answered briefly, and did not meet Frodo’s eyes.

 

“Eärendil’s?” The hobbit remembered Bilbo’s song about the Mariner who was said to be Elrond’s father.

 

“Nay. It belonged to Maglor.”

 

Frodo frowned in confusion. He did not know who Maglor was. He tried to remember Bilbo’s legends, and the lore translated in Bilbo’s red book, but he had memorised little of it. He had been so busy writing their own adventure...

 

“Your father was not Eärendil?” he asked hesitantly. It was possible he remembered wrong.

 

“Tell me, Master Frodo, what star is this on my brow?” Elrond spoke patiently, as if teaching a lesson to a child, but it did not offend the hobbit.

 

“The star of Eärendil,” Frodo said. This he knew, at least.

 

“And do you know what the star of Eärendil is?”

 

The hobbit closed his eyes, willing himself to remember any lines he had read about it, or a song that Bilbo sang. “A... a... silmaril?” he asked hesitantly.

 

“Indeed it is a Silmaril. And do you know who forged the Silmarils? You have seen this star before. Think of Moria.”

 

The gates of Moria. The mithril letters, and the star on the door. Celebrimbor’s star? No. The star of Fëanor. He knew little of Fëanor, but the name was familiar to him. Something about three gems, two of which were lost for ever and one that sailed the heavens.

 

“Fëanor? The star of Eärendil is a star of Fëanor?”

 

“That is correct, Master Frodo. The star of Eärendil is one of the Silmarils forged by Fëanor in the Elder days. Maglor was his second son. Do you really not know the History of the First Age of the Sun, and the War of the Jewels?”

 

“I am afraid I do not, Master Elrond. Only bits and pieces. If at all.”

 

Elrond laughed softly. “It would do you well to know at least a summary of it before you set foot in Aman, where the Elder Days are still living memory. Very well. I will tell you, but I will not sing it to you, for it is a sorrowful song, and many would be grieved if I sung it on this boat.”

 

Frodo nodded, and glanced around the deck. Elves were still mingling merrily. No need to disturb them, indeed.

 

“Fëanor was one of the greatest Elves ever born, very long ago. He was Galadriel’s uncle, and my own great-granduncle. He was a loremaster, a linguist, a craftsman and much more. No art was beyond Fëanor’s reach, and no Elf has ever had fire as fierce as he did. He crafted three Jewels in which the Light of the Trees was caught...” Elrond paused, seeing Frodo’s blank look. “The Two Trees were two beautiful Trees in Aman, one silver and one golden, not unlike the Sun and the Moon,” he explained. “As I was saying, Fëanor made three beautiful Jewels that shone with the Light of the Trees. But then Morgoth...  Melkor... Do you know who Melkor is?”

 

“The Evil One. Sauron’s master,” Frodo said with a shiver.

 

“Yes. Morgoth stole Fëanor’s Jewels, and murdered the King of the Noldor, Fëanor’s father. He destroyed the Trees in his flight to Beleriand - to Ennor. Mad for revenge, Fëanor swore a terrible oath to regain his Jewels. His seven sons swore with him, Maglor included. He swore with Ilúvatar as witness to find his Silmarils, and to slay anyone in his path. Fëanor departed for Ennor and in doing so he rebelled against the Valar, who advised against a war against Morgoth. Nothing could stop Fëanor’s drive. When the Swan-Elves refused him boats, he had them murdered, and stole the boats.”

 

Frodo gasped. Elrond nodded sadly.

 

“He sailed the boats to Ennor with his host. Now, he hated his brother (my great-grandfather) and was certain he would usurp him leadership of the Noldor. Already that brother was claiming to be the true King of the Noldor, disregarding the elder branch of the House of Finwë. So Fëanor burnt the ships to prevent the other host from reaching Ennor. Those Elves were stranded and braved many bitter hardships to follow. Many died, and the Noldor were forever divided after this. Fëanor did not live long. He died in a battle, and his sons were left to fulfill the Oath. Many terrible battles were fought in the First Age against Morgoth. All were futile. Until Lúthien and Beren. Do you know this tale, Master Frodo?”

 

“I do,” Frodo said, and thought of Aragorn and Arwen.

 

“Lúthien was my great-grandmother on my mother’s side. She and Beren stole a Silmaril from Morgoth. When they died, the Silmaril was passed down onto my grandfather, Dior. The sons of Fëanor that still lived, driven by the Oath, demanded to have the Silmaril returned to them. In his greed and pride, Dior refused, and the sons of Fëanor attacked his people and murdered them.”

 

Frodo grew even more pale. Elrond’s lips tightened, but he went on.

 

“The Silmaril then passed to my mother Elwing. As expected, the sons of Fëanor asked her to return the Silmaril. She refused, and a terrible battle was fought. This was the Third Kinslaying. My brother and I were six years old. My mother jumped off a cliff rather than handing over the Jewel, forsaking her children, and her people. But somehow she survived the fall, and rejoined Eärendil who had been at sea for years. That is the Silmaril he now bears. And after my mother left us, Maglor found us, my brother and I.”

 

“He found you... and you were raised by him? By the kinslayer?” Frodo asked, his mouth agape.

 

“The kinslayer was bound by a terrible oath, Frodo. Sworn to Ilúvatar, the One Himself. Not unlike what bound you to the Ring in the darkness. Yet this kinslayer named me, taught me to read, and to sing, and held me to sleep at night. He loved me like a son. Eärendil begot me, but my father is Maglor.”

 

Frodo looked down at his hands. It was too much to process in such little time. He had held the High Elves to be perfect, peaceful creatures... and now he found that they were capable of murder, of treachery, of terrible greed... And the Lady’s uncle, no less! Elrond’s kin! The man Elrond called father!

 

The hobbit did not speak for a long moment. The Elves on the deck still sang, but Frodo felt a little ill. And not because of the sea, he did not mind that anymore. Yet curiosity got the best of him in the end, because Elrond had still not told him how he had gotten his father’s... Maglor’s harp.

 

“What became of Maglor...?” he asked very softly.

 

“A long war was fought. My brother Elros fought with the Edain, when he was old enough. I stayed with Maglor and Maedhros, the other son of Fëanor alive by then. We got word that the war was won and that Morgoth was defeated. The Silmarils were within reach, at last. Maglor and Maedhros had a bitter quarrel over what was to be done. Maglor wished to forget the Silmarils, yield to the host of the Valar, and be judged for his crimes. Maedhros wanted to fulfill the Oath or perish in the attempt. They were beyond salvation or pardon, he said. If they were to die, let it be fulfilling the Oath to be free from it for ever.  I heard the dreadful fight all night long. Maedhros was tall and terrible, but Maglor was no less fierce than him. Yet in the end Maglor submitted to his brother’s wishes, and to the Oath’s demands. I often heard Maglor say that when the Oath burnt in him it made him ill, physically ill: a shortness of breath, disorientation, a dull ache in the chest. They left before dawn. I wanted to follow them. I had my horse saddled. But Maglor forbade me to. He... he knocked me off the horse and ordered me back to the camp. His eyes were empty. Mad. I had never seen him like this. He had never struck me before. I was frightened and I obeyed. I still wish I had not.”

 

Elrond looked down. Frodo feared he would cry.

 

“I went back to Maglor’s tent and lied there for days in the blackest of moods. Gil-galad’s army found us. They told us Maedhros and Maglor had slain the guards and stolen the last two Silmarils. Maedhros was seen jumping into a fiery chasm with his. Maglor was said to have drowned himself in the sea with his. This was what Maglor tried to spare me by stopping me from following them... The camp was disbanded, the followers pardoned. It was I who took down Maglor’s tent. He had little possessions when he lived. Mostly clothes and weapons. I destroyed those. Save this,” he pointed to his star circlet. “And this.” He raised the silver harp slightly, with the saddest of smiles. “This harp was forged in Aman. In battle, it could be as dire a weapon as the best of swords. Yet it was also what put his little Half-Elven children to sleep.”

 

Frodo felt something in his eye and pulled his handkerchief out. It was white and clean, he had chosen it before he set out. He handed it to Elrond, who needed it more than he did. The Half-Elf wiped a solitary tear from his cheek and gave it back to the hobbit.

 

“Much was obscure in those last days of the First Age. The Noldor were pardoned by the Valar, and were allowed back to Aman. My brother chose to be counted among Men, and I chose to be counted among the Elves, of course. Because of Maglor. Whispers were heard, that he had not drowned at all. It was said he fled down the shores after he cast away the Silmaril, mad with grief. I set out at once, of course. I rode on day and night, but could not find him. I never found him.”

 

There was something sorrowfully final in those words. Frodo glanced back at the shores, but they were no longer visible. Yet somewhere in that direction Maglor still grieved, alone and bitter. And Elrond, thrice abandonned. By Eärendil, then by Elwing and in the end, by Maglor too.

 

“When I returned to the Elves, I was offered a High Kingship. It was my right, as the last heir of Turgon and of Thingol. My brother was King of Men, and I was to be King of Elves, the first of this kind. It would have united all races. I was young, Master Frodo. What little diplomacy I knew I had learnt from an Elf torn by war and tormented by his crimes. I refused the Kingship. I said I cared little for the House of Turgon. And cared even less for Elwing and Eärendil the Saviour of Arda, who had abandoned their infant sons. That was outrageous enough. I would have added that I wished to be counted as one of the House of Fëanor, cursed or not, but Galadriel spoke first. I do not remember what she said, but she took the focus away from me, and I was spared to say words that would have been irreparable, even today.”

 

Elrond fingered the star on his brow with some unease. A cursed House. A cursed star.

 

“The Sindar were scattered into several kingdoms and the Kingship of the Noldor passed to the cadet branch of the House of Finwë, to Gil-galad. I learnt to love him as my King, eventually. And I learnt to silence the recklessness the son of Fëanor had instilled in me. It was for the best, I suppose.”

 

“Do people know?” Frodo asked in a whisper. “That the star you bear is for Maglor, and not for Eärendil?”

 

“Few are still alive to remember that council,” Elrond said, and glanced over to the Lady. She was looking their direction, with a sorrowful expression. Frodo averted his eyes. “It is long past, Master Frodo. Maglor is a forgotten memory. I no longer resent my true parents as much as I used to. But I remember Maglor and I choose to honour him. I do it quietly, for his crimes were dreadful and his victims still grieve. I lead a House where many races mingle, so I must not take sides as I once did. This I did not understand when I was young. Now, after so many years, so many wars, so many deaths... I know that my vision of him is flawed, as is my retelling of his deeds in the Elder Days. But I was a child, and he was my father. Wisdom prevails, but alas, my heart says otherwise.”

 

“I understand,” the hobbit said absently, his shoulder stiff and missing finger tingling.

 

He was thinking of the Oath of Fëanor. He knew what failure was like, when the world’s fate was upon one’s shoulders. Would he have killed for the Ring? He wanted to believe he would not have, but how could be certain? He had almost sent all to their death with his own foolishness. He could somewhat understand the desperation of Maedhros jumping into that chasm, and of Maglor to drown himself in the sea. He would have done the same. But to kill others? He did not know.

 

“It seems you are no longer seasick. But I see that these dire tales have set another sickness upon you. Forgive me for that,” Elrond said gently, and stroked Frodo’s brow.

 

The hobbit smiled a sad smile. “No more than upon you, Master Elrond. Your secret is safe. I will not betray the meaning of your star or your harp.”

 

Elrond bowed deeply, and left the bow of the boat with slow, graceful steps. His shoulders were slumped with sadness. Frodo stared after him until he saw him disappear under the decks. The hobbit looked straight ahead, into the endless sea. He wrapped himself in his cloak and closed his eyes, humming a sad tune to himself. The world was full, it seemed, of terrible stories and bloodied victories. In the end, the light shone on few. And those who fought stayed in the darkness.


End file.
